


Protect Me, Scourge

by TheBrightwillowBoy



Category: No Fandom, Original Content
Genre: Other, War, i am horrible, minor depiction of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 16:52:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16412279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrightwillowBoy/pseuds/TheBrightwillowBoy
Summary: What happens when a protector type aasimar gets pushed to the point of becoming a scourge? A crisis that's never resolved is what.





	Protect Me, Scourge

They should have seen it coming. They should have seen it coming months ago, when the sparks of anger in their chest grew to the seething of hot coals. Anger was a normal thing, however, wasn't it? They always felt angry at the injustice of the world, at how those higher up would point and laugh at those suffering below them without so much as asking to help, how those below, driven by desperation, would turn on each other in hopes of reaping some pitiful reward from a scrappy battle. They were always angry at that, but as more time progressed, the more obvious it became to them that something was wrong with them. Their guide, previously disapproving and condescending, gradually worked to anger them further, giving them visions of thieves that stole from mothers that were already on their last leg, showing them the cruelty of murder that was happening all around them while they simply danced in the shadows and exchanged a few coins for a smile. He antagonised them day in and day out, the visions given to Lustri haunting them even while they were awake as though they were a barb that wouldn't let go of their skin. Their guide would show them the most horrible things in the night while they slept, eventually making their dreams echo with the cries of those they ignored in favour of melding into the darkness of the world and sidestep the big picture. The big picture of fire and blood, of sacrifice for the wrong things. They were told, in the midst of every cold night, that their thievery had granted them the same status as murderers. Murderers, arsonists, traitors to their country, they were one of those people, and their guide was right, they were a criminal no matter how one could look at the situation, but all they did they did for good. 

 

At least, that was what they used to say. 

 

Over time, they grew to resent being associated with that dark underbelly of the world, a simmering pool of ire slowly burning the inside of their stomach each time they thoughts of that reality. Mentions of criminals made their blood boil, while reminders of the background screams that begged for help seared their eyes with streaks of unforgiving indignation. They hated it. They wanted to yell at the heavens, to yell at the gods that refused to listen, to announce to the world that no one would have to wait any longer! 

 

It was out of character for them to think such things, they knew. The soft curves of their mind were growing into sharp edges, the words ‘protect’ and ‘hide’ were gradually replaced replaced by a furious yell, a righteous demand to be seen. To destroy. The only problem was that didn't know what they wanted to destroy. It was a need stemming from directionless anger that was created by something festering within them, slowly poisoning their dreams, their movements, their organs. Sometimes, they felt as though they were actually being singed from the inside out. 

 

At least they got their answer soon enough.

 

It shouldn't have been something so easy to deny. The signs had all been there, louder than a cannon or a warcry, but they had foolishly, continuously, explained them away as bad days, situations, or states of mind, blaming everything they possibly could on human error. The flare in their eyes that emerged the night a group of thieves attempted to rob them was called a momentary shock of anger. Their eagerness to use their gloriously shimmering blade was called a lapse of judgement. The all-consuming darkness of the world that screamed and shrieked and thrashed about in their head was called a stressful delusion. Excuse after excuse after excuse poured out of Lustri’s mouth on many a tormenting night as they continued to deny their deterioration, until the heat of that unbearable rage threatened to melt them, to burn them into a pile of ash and bones. Until they exploded.

 

Gods, it was horrible. 

 

It happened when they were in the middle of a battle for the city. Tensions had been rising between the human inhabitants and those who belonged to the world of magic, creating a deep diving that they had fallen in the middle of. It was nightmarish. They were barely twenty five, yet they were forced to mow down life, after life, after vibrant life. Humans would fall at their feet with faces frozen in eternal shows of fear, disgust, and anger that were enough in and of themselves to poison their very blood. It ran cold in their veins, sending tremors through their thin arms and elegant hands, the shock and fear of their actions tripping them with long, unseen claws and shoving them to the ground, where they found themselves being trampled by dozens of desperate feet. They heard cracks and wails and roars that melted into a dimsaying whirlwind of brutality, ransacking their conscious thoughts until words of self-reassurance transformed into corporeal sobs, their tears mixing with blood and mud and other mortal horrors that would forever stay without a voice from then on. Determined handprints, glorious slashes of swords, horrified footprints - their tears mixed with all those things the more they were pressed into the ground, yet the entire world of those painful moments would fade into painful memories. Painful, silent memories that would break their mind many a time during lonely nights.  
They would die, they thought. They would die with dirt in their mouth and blood on their hands, they would die a disgrace to themself and the angels watching them from a home they could never reach.

 

Perhaps it was that thought that triggered the searing flames that turned their organs into coals, or perhaps it was the one that immediately followed it, the one that declared they would never be able to find the one they loved again, but Lustri would likely never know. In an instant, the chaos that gripped their entire being was ripped away from them and stomped into the muddy earth on their behalf, a burst of light rushing through them and seeming to push away the rampaging masses that threatened to break them without a single care. It was as though their fury had taken on the form of that light, for they were livid, and they were made of harsh sunlight.

 

Before they knew it, they were off the ground, their spine unfurling itself as the half-angel stood to their full, impressive height, what was once broken in their body mending itself as their bloodstained hands drifted over the points of pain, knitting shredded muscles into a whole and piecing together shattered bones. Something large, unfathomable, was rising up within them, tearing apart their stomach, lungs, and even their throat as it burst through their bloodied lips in the form of an awful, fiery, burning waterfall that slid down their chin and slowly dripped onto the ground, sizzling angrily amongst the blood of the fallen brave. Brave that lay at their feet.  
Brave that should have lived.

 

Lustri’s eyes melted in the wake of horrifyingly enchanting rivers of light as they worked their way down their twisted face, biting at their skin like a hungry dog. Their insides burned, their skin stung, and the rise and fall of their chest sped up by the second. Their blood was boiling, yet they knew they were crying. They were crying at the injustice of it all, crying for the dead that lay at their feet. They cried until they couldn’t think anymore, and even then, even when their mind shut down, they could remember one thing.

 

Their one memory from beyond their point of grief was the vibrant light that shot out from their every surface as though they were a chip from the sun that crash-landed onto the earth, warmth turning to agonising heat that devoured them and everyone around them. All were yellin in alarm and backing away from them; orcs, tieflings, humans, all absolutely horrified at the sight and feeling of a burning angel in their midst. Lustri couldn’t blame anyone, once they were in their right mind, but all they could see in those moments was their brimstone rage. Their mouth yanked itself open in a silent scream of hatred and pain, the aura that pooled around them highlighting the streak of movement the angel carved into the war-torn air. 

 

Their muscles were tense, ready to snap out at any given second in order to strike those responsible for this horrible mess down as though they were nothing but pigs squabbling around in the mud. It, the whole thing, it felt awful, yet they felt their soul yell in pleasure as it was singed and ruined while their blade sang in glee as it shredded through the human warriors’ foul bodies. It felt like dying, each ticking second bringing them one step closer to the darkness of the end-all, and yet they wished for more. More, more, more their warped mind would hiss, the terrible animosity it carried with it drowning the gentle reminders of the promise they were breaking. 

 

‘I will forever look out for you,’ they had once said on a warm day far away from any sort of carnage. 

 

‘I will hear you,’ they had promised once upon a happy morning. 

 

‘I will come for you if you need me,’ their broken promise was stray, cast aside by such an irrational explosion of crooked defiance and a need for good in the world, their focus only on the vicious fires that consumed them and everything around them. This was something that, for a grotesque, passionate instance was all they were and all they would ever be. They wanted it. They needed it, and they would keep it no matter the cost. 

 

The next thing they knew, they jolted awake harshly, gasping, panting, a terrible pain raking at their insides until they started coughing and retching onto the cold ground below them, their body shivering like it had never known warmth, ready to shatter, to dissolve into dust at the slightest gust of wind.   
They were scared. There, on all fours, in near darkness, Lustri had no idea where they were or why they were there for the longest of minutes. All they knew was that it hurt. It felt awful. It terrified them, they were lost, nothing made sense, and the more they moved, the more lightning bolts streaked across their skin. They were so vulnerable. They wanted to run and hide, to lift up their arm against some unseen threat, but their body wouldn't obey them any longer. Getting in their hands and knees was as far as Lustri could go, and even so they felt their joints giving out. They collapsed within seconds, elbows buckling under their weight. They felt weak, made out of paper that had been soaked in water. Their empty stomach rose into their throat, spurred on by the hounding scent of death that shoved its way into their system, destroying their mind with the horrid things they'd done. In that moment, on their side amongst blood and corpses they couldn't see, strains of what was once glory seeping through the armour of the fallen warriors as a last act of defiance, the angel that only hours ago was a shard of hellfire turning the battle’s ride felt their mind begin to break. Killing was something they'd never done before, and now they had slaughtered countless. They didn't even have a loose idea as to how many had died by their hands. 

 

Fresh wounds and burns went forgotten as Lustri’s shocked weeping devolved into silent scream, after silent scream, after silent scream, each unheard beg calling desperately for time to be reversed. They couldn't bear what they'd done. Greater good or not, Lustri hadn't wanted to kill anyone, they weren't built a messenger of death. Lustri was meant to protect! That was their purpose! For a quarter of a century, that was what they existed to do! But, now… 

 

What were they there for? A kernel of rage, temporarily uncontrollable, had no place amongst legions of silent protectors, even if that fire that had ruined all had sputtered out and left them cold and alone. They had no place. They lost their place the moment they began wanting that jarring hatred for so much of the world.   
They had no place. 

 

They had no rights. 

 

They were a murderer. Their guide was right.


End file.
